Though Spring had come, none of us saw it. Afterwards it occurred to me that I had seen all the ranks of poplars suddenly bursten into a dark crimson glow, with a flutter of blood-red where the sun came through the leaves; that I had found high cradles where the swan’s eggs lay by the waterside; that I had seen the daffodils leaning from the moss-grown wooden walls of the boat-house, and all, moss, daffodils, water, scattered with the pink scarves from the elm buds; that I had broken the half-spread fans of the sycamore, and had watched the white cloud of sloe-blossom go silver grey against the evening sky: but I had not perceived it, and I had not any vivid spring-pictures left from the neglected week. It was Sunday evening, just after tea, when Lettie suddenly said to me: “Come with me down to Strelley Mill.” I was astonished, but I obeyed unquestioningly. On the threshold we heard a chattering of girls, and immediately Alice’s voice greeted us: “Hello, Sybil, love! Hello, Lettie! Come on, here’s a gathering of the goddesses. Come on, you just make us right. You’re Juno, and here’s Meg, she’s Venus, and I’m—here, somebody, who am I, tell us quick—did you say Minerva, Sybil dear? Well you ought, then! Now Paris, hurry up. He’s putting his Sunday clothes on to take us a walk—Laws, what a time it takes him! Get your blushes ready, Meg—now, Lettie, look haughty, and I’ll look wise. I wonder if he wants me to go and tie his tie. Oh, Glory—where on earth did you get that antimacassar?” “In Nottingham—don’t you like it?” said George referring to his tie. “Hello, Lettie—have you come?” “Yes, it’s a gathering of the goddesses. Have you that apple? If so, hand it over,” said Alice. “What apple?” “Oh, Lum, his education! Paris’s apple—Can’t you see we’ve come to be chosen?” “Oh, well—I haven’t got any apple—I’ve eaten mine.” “Isn’t he flat—he’s like boiling magnesia that’s done boiling for a week. Are you going to take us all to church then?” “If you like.” “Come on, then. Where’s the Abode of Love? Look at Lettie looking shocked. Awfully sorry, old girl—thought love agreed with you.” “Did you say _love_?” inquired George. “Yes, I did; didn’t I, Meg? And you say ‘Love’ as well, don’t you?” “I don’t know what it is,” laughed Meg, who was very red and rather bewildered. “‘Amor est titillatio’—‘Love is a tickling,’—there—that’s it, isn’t it, Sybil?” “How should I know.” “Of _course_ not, old fellow. Leave it to the girls. See how knowing Lettie looks—and, laws, Lettie, you are solemn.” “It’s love,” suggested George, over his new neck-tie. “I’ll bet it is ‘degustasse sat est’—ain’t it, Lettie? ‘One lick’s enough’—‘and damned be he that first cries: Hold, enough!’—Which one do you like? But _are_ you going to take us to church, Georgie, darling—one by one, or all at once?” “What do you want me to do, Meg?” he asked. “Oh, I don’t mind.” “And do you mind, Lettie?” “I’m not going to church.”